


Dismissed

by Daegaer



Category: Kill Bill, Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Assassins, Gen, Japanese Characters, Murder, Precognition, Schwarz - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford seeks an alliance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dismissed

**Author's Note:**

> A companion to [Sword Edge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/115704).

Crawford sipped his tea and kept a polite expression on his face as the woman opposite gestured for the little cakes to be offered again.

"Ms Ishii," he said, "Your taste, as always, is exquisite."

"Thank you, Mr Crawford," she said, delicately brushing an imaginary spot away from her kimono. "It's always such a pleasure to see old friends."

Crawford ate one of the cakes slowly, sipped his tea, and thought how good it would be to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze. "It's such a pity you couldn't fit Schuldig in to this meeting," he said.

"Mr Crawford, he's not an old friend," she smiled. "He makes _noises_ when he drinks his tea."

Schuldig had made plenty of noise about being left out; Crawford ignored the sudden flash of foresight of his rage at hearing his table-manners weren't up to scratch to meet with – as Schuldig had earlier offered as a description – a jumped-up little syphilitic bitch who'd seen one Kurasawa movie too many. Not that O-Ren Ishii would ever have anything as _tasteless_ as syphilis.

"Have you thought further about my proposal, Ms Ishii?" he asked. It had been almost an hour since he arrived, and they'd better get down to business before she could offer any more tea.

"Yes, Mr Crawford," she said. "I must turn you down."

He'd expected that. Even without precognition, anyone would expect her to indulge herself a little before letting herself be persuaded.

"Perhaps if I could go over what we can offer –" he started.

"Look, _Brad_ ," she snapped, switching to English. "You can't offer me shit. What have you been since Takatori got himself killed? Nothing, that's what. Fucking has-beens. You want me to take on you and Schuldig? You used to be a four-man team – you can't even offer enough to keep your own people, and you have the gall to come begging? I'm not running a fucking charity here, and I don't see that two fools from a fucking German terrorist group have anything I need or want." She sat back demurely. "I'm so sorry that circumstances are not amenable to me granting your request," she said in sweet, overly-polite Japanese.

Her monstrous little bodyguard was laughing openly, and her gang were sniggering behind their hands. Crawford felt his pleasant expression turn a little more murderous, and he forcibly smiled. Eszett would have flicked this woman away as if she were a tiny spider, but neither he nor Schuldig could go back to Eszett, and neither of them had wanted to take Nagi's route either. They needed something to use to get themselves back to regular work, but the Crazy 88, it seemed, was not going to be that something.

"More tea, Mr Crawford?"

He looked up at the Frenchwoman who'd given him the cakes, and barely kept himself from flinching back. Blood poured from her shoulder socket, soaking into her jacket as she screamed in shock. The Crazy 88 looked at him, sword cuts across their bodies and faces, their white shirts scarlet and dripping.

"Mr Crawford? Are you quite all right?"

Crawford made himself look at O-Ren. Her skin was ashen; she looked at him from dry, dead eyes. He coughed as she leant forward, pushing the teapot towards him. The top of her head was gone; blood had soaked all down the back of her kimono.

"Have another cup, you don't look well."

"I should go," he said, and managed to stand under their ghastly, empty gaze.

"Sofie," O-Ren said as her people laughed, "Mr Crawford's not well. Give him two thousand yen for a taxi. No, wait – make it three thousand. He can buy a light dinner for his friend and himself at McDonald's."

"Goodbye, Ms Ishii," Crawford said, not quite looking at her. He got himself away, down the stairs and threaded his way through the empty club. Only when he was standing in the street did he feel the vision leave him, fading away to be replaced with the sounds and smells of the present. He drew a deep breath, and started walking. Whatever was going to happen was close and would be very thorough. It looked like he and Schuldig had dodged a bullet, or in this case, a sword. Someone would pay for this information; someone would give them the toehold they wanted.

After another few blocks he hailed a taxi. It was self-indulgent, but why not? It wasn't as if he was paying with his own money.


End file.
